


Domino

by tromana



Series: 50 Starting Points [8]
Category: The Mentalist
Genre: Angst, Challenge Response, Drama, F/M, Introspection, Paint It Red Challenge, Psychological Drama, Stream of Consciousness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-19
Updated: 2013-07-19
Packaged: 2017-12-20 16:50:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/889582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tromana/pseuds/tromana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the end, everything falls.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Domino

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the July 2013 Monthly Challenge on Paint It Red. Belated birthday gift for Toya.

Life is a strange thing.

An oddity.

A quirk.

It goes against nature, it fights against entropy.

It builds things up to break them down.

Essentially, it's wrong.

Patrick Jane knows this.

He's learned the hard way.

He always learns the hard way.

Or, so he thinks.

There was once a time when he was happy.

Jubilant.

Successful.

He had his dreams.

They came true.

His wife.

Angela.

Precious.

Beautiful.

Perfect.

Well, not perfect.

Just in his eyes, at least.

His daughter.

Charlotte.

Bright.

Wonderful.

Inspiring.

Innocent.

Dead.

It's his fault.

It's always his fault.

He knows what he did wrong.

He wishes he could change the past.

But that is just a dream.

Always just a dream.

It's one that cannot come true.

Ever.

He wishes it could.

But it won’t.

No matter how hard he wishes.

No matter how hard he prays.

Unlike life, it's an impossibility.

Life is a parasite.

For him.

For the world.

It doesn’t create.

It merely destroys.

Existence is futile.

Without his wife.

Without his daughter.

He's purposeless.

Like life itself.

He hurts.

Literally.

It's not worth living anymore.

He wants to die.

He sees Red.

Everywhere.

Walls.

Floor.

Sky.

People.

Life.

Tainted.

Stained.

Crimson.

Cinnabar.

Terracotta.

Maroon.

Claret.

Carmine.

Scarlet.

John.

He can't beat him.

He's the man who stole his dreams.

The nightmare in the shadows.

That's what dreams always turn into in the end.

Nightmares.

It's easier to give up.

And so, he does.

It's better that way.

He doesn't deserve to live.

He stole away two innocent people's hopes and dreams.

They come so slow and go so fast.

It makes his heart ache.

It makes his head ache.

It makes his everything ache.

That's the least he deserves.

He wanders.

Aimless.

Lost.

Finds himself at a bridge.

Water gushing underneath.

Water cleans.

Cleanses.

Absolves.

He can find peace there.

He jumps.

xxx

He wakes.

There is no afterlife.

He knows.

He always knows this.

Life is a freak of nature.

Not God.

There is no God.

This is real.

He's still alive.

Much to his chagrin.

He should be six feet under.

With Angela.

With Charlotte.

His life ended with theirs.

He's a lost soul.

Physically alive.

But dead inside.

Somebody stopped this.

Who?

He doesn't know.

He doesn't care.

He closes his eyes.

Wishes that sleep would just wash over him.

It doesn't.

Dreams are something that he doesn't deserve.

Once he'd gotten everything he wished for.

He's lost it.

He lived the charmed life.

Took it for granted.

It's gone now.

He lays awake.

But sees nothing.

Except a Red smiley face.

Red.

Red.

Red.

Made of Red blood cells.

Erythrocytes.

From arteries.

From veins.

From hearts.

Of people he loves.

Of people he loved.

Of people who should be alive.

When he should be dead.

This is a far more effective punishment than death.

He's alive when they should be.

He stands.

Finds a glass.

Foolishly left.

It's all he needs.

Knocks it over.

It breaks.

Smashes.

If it can shatter then so can he.

Shards.

He picks one up.

The biggest.

Stares at his arm.

Prominent veins.

Full of Red blood cells.

Erythrocytes.

Life.

He drags it along the vein.

Red blood pearls in the fine cut.

Draws it deeper.

It gushes out.

Everywhere.

He feels relief.

Joy.

Pain.

He deserves pain.

He deserves death.

He sees that Red smiley face again.

Taunting.

Leering.

Mocking.

There needs to be another.

He draws it.

Tentatively.

Carefully.

His hand shakes.

He's stopped.

_You don't need to do this._

_I do._

_It's not your fault._

_It is._

_Red John killed your family._

_Not you._

_I..._

A light bulb flickers.

Light.

In an otherwise Red world.

He smiles.

There is a future.

A temporary one.

He has a new dream now.

Of Death.

Destruction.

Validation.

Revenge.

xxx

Patrick Jane gets better.

Or it appears that way, at least.

He reclaims his name.

His clothes.

His car.

His house.

He does his research.

Finds who he needs to speak to.

_Red John is mine._

They will understand.

They know murder.

They've killed themselves.

They've had to in their line of work.

They justify it.

Death is a way of life.

They accept it.

And move on.

They can accept him.

And his need.

For Death.

For revenge.

He drives to Sacramento.

To the CBI.

To a new life.

He has new dreams on the horizon.

He doesn't know it yet.

He will soon.

He arrives.

Parks.

Takes the elevator up to the third floor.

Wanders through the corridors.

The prefabricated offices.

Takes none of it in.

One task in mind.

Only one thing he needs.

He spots her.

Petite.

Brunette.

Green eyes.

Pale skin.

Fragile.

Beautiful.

Strong.

She holds the Red John case in the palms of her hands.

Figuratively speaking.

She’s saved him once.

Already.

He can’t remember.

He won’t remember.

It’s the only thing he doesn’t know about his past.

He needs her.

Still.

For Red John.

She’ll be important to him.

To his hope.

His dreams.

His future.

He just doesn't know it yet.


End file.
